Frost paints pretty patterns on the windows,
ices over the world outside. Deeper
into covers and pillows, she burrows
to hide from memories, chase them away.
Counting calendar days is a habit;
ignoring mile-markers an effort.

This is the evening one came home; the dayone left. How quickly did he cross overthe edge of the line – to the other side?

None of the dates and times are recorded
anywhere save inside her heart and mind;
she can’t erase the pain, although she’s tried.

In the season of joy – forgiveness – hope,
sorrow settles around her, cold as frost.